


Dragon Age - tumblr prompts

by silveriris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, D/s undertones, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Multi, Praise Kink, Sampernia, Tumblr Prompt, florimond, major character death in chapter 11, merribela, please check each chapter for warnings, vague spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of stories for various prompts focusing on Dragon Age characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isabela/Merrill

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: On a scale of one to ten, how illegal do you think doing this is?  
> orginally posted on tumblr: http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/143907366568/on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten-how-illegal-do-you

“On a scale of one to ten, how illegal do you think doing this is?” Merrill asks with a hint of excitement in her voice.

Isabela grins. “Relax, Kitten. We’re just… visiting someone’s house.”

“We are _breaking into_ someone’s house.”

Isabela waves her hand. “Don’t worry about every little detail. It’ll be fine.”

Their plan is easy. _Isabela’s_ plan because obviously it was her idea to break into the house of people she calls “pompous assholes”. Merrill had to ask her to clarify since that’s the way the pirate calls at least half of Kirkwall’s population.

“Remember when Hawke was looking for runaway mages? One of them has rich parents, de Launcets. We went to their house looking for the wayward son,” Isabela explained. “And now we’re going back there.”

“But why?” the elf asked, confused.

She only said, “I need to show you something.” Merrill created a long list of things that nobles could be hiding in their house.

It’s surprisingly easy to get inside the mansion; then again Isabela is a skilled rogue. If she wants something, she gets it. When the lock clicks, and the door opens, Isabela steps aside to let Merrill in.

The elf looks back at Hawke’s trusty mabari, Dog, waiting for them patiently, hidden between rosebushes Lady de Launcet grows in her garden. Dog is supposed to warn them if anyone’s coming but so far everything goes smoothly. Merrill expects a heavy resistance, something exciting to happen, similar to a scene from one of Varric’s novels. Perhaps they’ll get surrounded by countless enemies and Isabela will swing on the chandelier, throwing daggers at their opponents while Merrill looks at her in awe. Then they’ll run away, and live as wanted criminals.

Merrill shakes her head. Maybe Hawke’s right, and she shouldn’t believe in everything Varric writes. But it all seems so _exciting_ , while her own life gets rather boring when Hawke’s not around.

So it’s a bit disappointing that they can just get inside without anyone noticing. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to get caught. It would be impossible to blame it on someone else because it’s not like there are many Rivaini pirates or Dalish mages living in Kirkwall. Aveline would surely find out about it. And when Aveline gets angry she is really scary. It’s all fun and games until the captain of the guard has a sword in her hand.

The pirate’s voice interrupts Merrill’s thoughts. “This way, Kitten. Everyone’s asleep but we have to be quiet just in case.”

Merrill nods and follows Isabela through the long hallway, then up the stairs. She tiptoes with caution, still expecting something to happen, but so far it seems that breaking into someone’s house isn’t as exciting as Varric usually describes it in his writings.

The house is big, bigger than Hawke’s or any other house Merrill has ever seen. In comparison her tiny place in the Alienage seems even smaller. Amazingly, Isabela doesn’t have any problems finding the right room when she finally stops in front of one of many doors. She opens them with a mischievous smile, the kind of smile that means _trouble_ for some but also _adventure_ for others.

The room is dark but in the moonlight seeping through the wide windows Merrill can see a big oval mirror on the wall, a desk and a chair. It’s hard to tell what’s the purpose of this room. Perhaps Lady de Launcet sits here and writes long letters, then admires her reflection in the mirror. From what Merrill knows, nobles in Kirkwall don’t have many things to do. It must be boring, spending days buying dresses or attending parties wearing fancy clothes and ridiculous hats. Thankfully, now that Hawke’s family is rich again thanks to the Deep Roads expedition, Hawke didn’t change at all.

Nearly forgetting why they’re here, Merrill looks back at Isabela. The pirate picks up a wooden box from the desk.

“Come here,” she gestures at the elf.

The place is so quiet her voice seems loud like a thunder. For a second Merrill wants to remind her they should be whispering or else someone will catch them here. Isabela, however, doesn’t seem to care, and talks in a normal voice as if nothing else mattered but the thing in the wooden box she so wants Merrill to see.

“When Hawke was talking to de Launcets, I got bored and, well, went to see if they have anything interesting in their mansion,” Isabela explains, not ashamed in the slightest. “I found nothing but _this_. And I thought it’s perfect for you.”

Inside the box there’s a necklace with emeralds that sparkle nearly as much as the pirate’s eyes. Merrill hesitates, unsure what to do.

“For me?” she asks, blushing.

“I thought I should get you something nice, something… special.”

Isabela bites her lower lip, for a second she looks away as if embarrassed. It’s new, seeing her like this, even for a moment. Merrill is used to the pirate being bold, loud and brave. She gets a glimpse of the other Isabela, the one hiding behind a carefully constructed façade, and her lips curl into a warm smile.

Merrill hesitates, even though there are words she wants to say. It’s all so easy in her mind but when she tries to speak, her courage is gone, replaced by an anxious feeling coiling in her gut.

She takes a deep breath. She’s not good with words but this time she has to be or else the moment is gone and she’ll never tell Isabela just how much it all means to her.

 “You don’t have to give me anything. It’s been so nice, spending time with you. I don’t need anything special form you, any special gifts. I just need… you.”

Seeing the expression on Isabela’s face, something like surprise but not quite, Merrill blinks, the blush on her face going a shade deeper. The pirate stares at her silently for a long minute that feels like eternity. Then she smiles, and the Isabela Merrill knows is back.

“I’ll get you a better one!” she says with so much confidence Merrill instantly believes her no matter how silly this is. “I mean, this necklace is _pretty_ but I just wanted to show it to you. I’m not going to steal it. Unless…”

She glances at Merrill, one eyebrow raised. The elf quickly shakes her head.

“Right,” Isabela nods and reluctantly closes the box.

Suddenly they hear barking followed by screams of someone who has just discovered an enormous mabari hiding between roses.

“Our little trip’s over,” Isabela says, placing the box back on the desk. “Let’s go!”

And they escape through the window, just like in one of Varric’s novels, holding hands and laughing.

 


	2. Florianne/Erimond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “There are certain moments where I consider you someone with brilliant ideas and a good future. This is not one of those moments.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr: http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/143944767428/there-are-certain-moments-where-i-consider-you  
> this chapter contains spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition

Florianne nods, listening to a Tevinter merchant speaking about a meeting with his friends from the Magisterium. She only agreed to talk to him because he’s wealthy enough that he surely has connections. Even so far away from home Florianne feels the need to get to know the right people that can later prove useful. As important as this merchant appears to be, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s so dreadfully boring it’s difficult not to yawn.

She glances at the man standing near the tall window. Erimond looks as bored as she feels. Noticing he holds a bottle in one hand, and a glass full of wine in the other, Florianne swears in her thoughts. It was supposed to be a pleasant evening. Now it seems she’ll have to do something before the magister embarrasses them both.

Livius Erimond is back in Vyrantium after his failed attempt to turn the Grey Wardens into a demon army for Corypheus. His family paid a lot of gold to save his life. It was rather generous of the Inquisitor to spare him, considering his crimes. But it seems that Erimond doesn’t appreciate his family’s efforts to bring him back home. It’s good he’s the eldest son, the heir; Maker knows what would happen if he was the youngest child. He’d surely spend his remaining years locked up in Skyhold.

Florianne’s eyes move back to the man by her side. She continues to talk to the merchant for another while, looking at him with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her cold eyes. Deciding she’s had enough of listening to his atrocious attempts at speaking Orlesian she thanks him for a wonderful talk. Before she walks away, she touches his shoulder and leans in just so he later remembers the sweet smell of her perfume. It’s important to have _friends_ , especially so far away from Orlais.

As she walks across the room, holding her head high, the expression on her face changes. Tevinters don’t wear masks, but Florianne plays the Game well enough to always know what people expect from her. Feeling eyes following her every step, some curious, some jealous (she is, after all, a mysterious Orlesian noblewoman), she walks forward, smiling to those who openly stare at her.

Erimond merely glances at her as she stops next to him. He pours himself another glass of wine, then sets the empty bottle aside with a disgusted noise. Florianne, still with a smile on her lips, takes the glass from his hands. She drinks the wine, ignoring his angry glare.

She quickly inspects his clothes, looking for any imperfections. He’s wearing a fine Tevinter robe, with too many buckles and belts for her taste. It’s something that people here consider _fashionable_ although she would use a different word to describe it if anyone asked her.

“Are all Tevinter parties so dull?” she asks in an innocent voice.

“I invited you here but did you come here as the Grand Duchess or the Inquisition’s agent?”

Florianne laughs, covering her lips with a gloved hand. He tries to sound angry; usually his anger is quite amusing but now she feels more and more annoyed.

“ _You_ invited me? I invited myself. Let me remind you that I had to spend all afternoon convincing you to come here.”

“And for what?” he asks, twisting his lips into an ugly snarl.

Florianne lets out a sigh. It’s tiring, responding to his petty anger. Instead of enjoying Tevinter, making new connections, seeing everything this country has to offer for a wealthy person such as Florianne, she has to deal with a brooding magister. She came to Vyrantium two days ago, and so far she’s only seen Ermiond’s estate because he’s so fascinated with his liquor cabinet lately, he doesn’t have time for anything else. He wasn’t particularly thrilled to see her, but Florianne didn’t come to Tevinter to watch him drink himself to death.

She should leave this foolish man and go back to Val Royeaux. It’s difficult to say why she wastes her time on him, but she’s willing to give him one more chance.

“There are certain moments where I consider you someone with brilliant ideas and a good future,” she pauses, giving him a significant look. “But this is not one of those moments.”

She may be lying but perhaps just enough compliments will work. Words are all she has now. She can’t yell at him to stop moping and  slap him in the face in front of all these people. But if he insists on being so irritating Maker knows she will, once they’re alone.

She puts the half empty glass on the table next to the bottle. Erimond is looking at her with doubt in his eyes, clearly not quite believing her.

 “Everyone here is watching you because you’re the one who fought against the Inquisition and survived. Show them that even the almighty Inquisitor could not defeat you.”

“The Elder One is dead,” he hisses, anger colouring his face red. “The Inquisition won.”

“They merely won one battle. Don’t forget that there are other games we can play.”

Perhaps the smile on her lips is genuine this time. It works well enough that Erimond looks intrigued. She says nothing else, this isn’t the time and place for explaining her skilfully crafted intrigues. There’s still one thing she wants to do while they’re here.

“Ask me for a dance, and let’s give these people something to talk about.”

After a moment of hesitation he offers her his hand. Florianne narrows her eyes and smiles with satisfaction.


	3. Merrill/Isabela/Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: It’s cake, how difficult can it be? + Merrill/Isabela/Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on my tumblr: http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/146756399033/its-cake-how-difficult-can-it-be-for

Merrill was sitting in the dining room of the Hawke’s estate, waiting for the Champion who invited her and Isabela for a surprise. As it turned out, Hawke was trying to make a _cake_.

 _Excited_ was one word to describe how she felt. _Troubled_ was another because as much as she liked the idea of trying something Hawke made, Merrill could see smell something burning. She could only hope the Champion didn’t set her home on fire.

“Relax, Kitten,” Isabela said, as if reading the elf’s thoughts.

“I’ve never seen Hawke cooking. And now she’s _baking_ but it sounds like something’s exploding in the kitchen…”

“It’s cake, how difficult can it be?” Isabela shrugged. “Have some faith in our dear Champion of Kirkwall.”

Merrill let out a sigh. Hawke asked them to wait here while she finished her masterpiece, and she absolutely forbade them going to the kitchen. The fact that Hawke’s mabari hid under the table wasn’t helping at all.

So when the kitchen door finally opened, and Hawke stepped inside the dining room, Merrill half expected to see her carrying some charred remains of an unspecified black matter. Fortunately, it wasn’t that bad.

Hawke’s clothes were ruined, face smudged with flour, hair sticking out in every possible direction. But the cake on a silver platter she was holding in her hands looked good. Feeling a bit ashamed to admit she thought Hawke’s baking adventure would be a complete disaster, Merrill stared at the perfectly shaped, nicely decorated fruit cake.

“ _Bon appetit_!” Hawke beamed, putting the cake in front of Isabela and Merrill.

“Hey, this looks… nice,” Isabela said, surprise clear in her voice. The elf felt slightly better knowing she wasn’t the only one who doubted. “Didn’t know you speak Orlesian.”

“It turns out my neighbours have family in Orlais,” Hawke replied, putting slices of the cake on plates. “Tell me what you think!”

Hesitantly, Merrill tried a little bit. She didn’t want to lie to her friend, but then again she genuinely hoped the cake is at least edible. Hawke was good at many things, tough baking wasn’t one of them judging from the destruction she caused while trying to make one small cake.

“It’s good!” Merrill exclaimed with relief.

“It really is…” Isabela sounded even more surprised, staring at her plate in shock.

Hawke grinned. “What if I opened a bakery? I’d call it… _The Champion’s Delights_!”

Merrill wanted to propose something different but a sudden crash from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts. The dog whined from under the table. Hawke jumped on her feet and sprinted to the kitchen in panic.

“I think she should forget about baking and just stick to saving Kirkwall once in a while,” Isabela suggested with a sigh.


	4. Briala/fTrevelyan/Celene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Briala/fTrevelyan/Celene; both Celene and Briala fall for the inquisitor; everyone except the Inquisitor notices  
> Requested by N.L.F.C. https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2904605/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition.
> 
> A/N: this is silly, way longer than I intended, and doesn’t make much sense. It was a challenge to write something about these characters, but I hope that at least some part of this story is good enough.

Celene lived, and the future of Orlais was safe.

After her speech, once they were away from prying eyes Celene put her hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. Her face was as emotionless as the mask she wore, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Confused, Trevelyan didn’t say a word. It probably didn’t mean anything.

Once she was free from Celene, Trevelyan found herself in a room with Briala. There were so many rooms in the Winter Palace, it was hard to say where they went exactly.

“I’d like to thank you again,” the elf said with a warm smile.

_She’s pretty when she smiles_ , Trevelyan thought, quite surprised that she even noticed.

“If I can help you in any way, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Briala leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, and Trevelyan was so stunned she couldn’t say anything.

Later Trevelyan didn’t pay much attention to any of that. Josephine gave her a funny look, but Trevelyan was so tired she decided to ignore it completely. She needed to get back to Skyhold and sleep for as long as she could.

Little did she know she wasn’t done with Orlais yet.

 

* * *

 

Precisely one week later the Empress sent a letter to Skyhold, once again stating how grateful she is for all the help she got from the Inquisition.

“I think Celene likes you,” Leliana said, surprise painted on her face. “I never thought she would be so… _kind_.”

Trevelyan smiled. How funny to see the usually stoic and calm spymaster so shocked.

“I’d say it’s a diplomatic victory for the Inquisition. I’m glad we have Orlais on our side,” she pointed out. “It’s obvious she’s being _nice_ to me because she wants me, the mighty Inquisitor, as her ally. She rules Orlais freely now, but Corypheus is still a threat.”

“Yes, but…” Leliana let out a sigh, her eyes scanning the letter once again as if searching for a hidden meaning.

“Could you please write a reply? Tell her I’m always happy to help and all that. You’re better with words than me, and you certainly know more about the Orlesian way of thinking than I do.”

“Of course,” Leliana nodded.

She seemed a bit worried, but Trevelyan decided it was best to ignore it because really, the spymaster had no reason to worry about Celene’s intentions. Or so the Inquisitor thought.

 

* * *

 

Trevelyan hummed to herself as she grabbed a piece of bread from the kitchen table. There should be a jar of marmalade nearby. And a jug of milk if she was lucky.

She knew she shouldn’t come to the kitchen in the middle of the night. But she was the Inquisitor, dammit. If she wanted to go to the Skyhold’s kitchen after midnight and get something to eat, then she sure as hell could do it.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

The Inquisitor jumped, bread falling on the floor. She turned, ready to face whatever horror wanted to attack her.

It was just a petite elven woman wearing servant’s clothes.

“Maker’s balls, who the hell are you?! And why do you scare me like that?”

The woman blinked, faint blush colouring her face. “I’m terribly sorry, Inquisitor. Briala sends me. She’d like to know if there’s anything you need that she can help you with.”

“It’s past midnight and I’m wearing a nightdress!”

“As I said, I’m terribly – ”

Trevelyan cursed. “You know what, I get it, Briala’s weird.” She took a deep breath. The elf stared at her with a hint of panic in her big brown eyes. “ _Please_ tell her that as much as I appreciate her offer, I don’t wish to be disturbed in the middle of the night. She should contact me or better, Leliana, and we’ll be more than happy to speak to her or you, or her other agents, someplace else because we’re in the kitchen, and the Inquisitor should _not_ make any important decisions in a place that smells like onion soup.”

She reached for the bread that fell on the floor, her hunger completely gone. Andraste’s ass, being the Inquisitor sure was exhausting sometimes.

“Understood,” the woman nodded. “If I may, there’s one more thing…”

“I’m listening…” Trevelyan groaned. She had only herself to blame since it was her fault she  came here for the midnight snack. She should be in bed. Warm, soft bed, and she could deal with problems like this one in the morning.

“She’d like to give you this.”

The elf held out a sword in a sheath decorated with small crystals. Trevelyan scratched her head. She felt so confused she was actually getting dizzy.

“It’s for you,” the elf clarified before putting it gently on the table. Trevelyan looked at the sword, finding it more and more difficult to believe it wasn’t a dream.

“Tell her that I, ah… I’ll think of the right way to repay her for this.”

“No, no, there’s no need. Please accept it as a token of friendship.”

“Hm,” was all Trevelyan could say.

“Good night, Inquisitor,” the elf said before she disappeared Maker knows where.

Trevelyan couldn’t remember how she got back to her bedchamber. The next day she gave the sword to Cullen, begging him to ‘do something with it’. He looked even more confused than her, but thankfully he didn’t ask about anything.

She never went to the kitchen in the middle of the night again.

 

* * *

 

“Empress Celene?!”

Trevelyan, face smeared with mud and sweat, armour dirty after fighting, stared at Cassandra. The Seeker nodded.  “Yes, she’s here and she wants to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“We are on a battlefield,” Trevelyan stated. “I’m glad she sent us her chevaliers, but what’s _she_ doing here?”

“It seems Celene’s become one of your biggest fans,” Dorian chuckled. As the only mage in the group chosen for the final battle he was considerably cleaner than the rest. Or maybe he knew a spell that kept his expensive robes in the best shape no matter what.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Inquisitor asked, growing more confused with every passing second.

Dorian waved his hand. “Oh, nothing. Don’t let her wait.”

It wasn’t hard to locate the Empress. Surrounded by her handmaidens, she stood near the chevaliers, offering them her blessings and support of the whole Orlais. Trevelyan wondered if Celene had some kind of _royal armour_ created for the occasion, but no. She wore an ornate silver mask, and a deep blue dress. Who even allowed her to come to the battlefield? If anything were to happen, Orlais would surely blame the Inquisition. Trevelyan frowned. She’d need to speak to Briala once the battle is over, providing everyone survives.

With a heavy sigh, she walked to the Empress of Orlais. Seeing her, one of the handmaidens gasped. The Inquisitor curtsied, though she imagined she probably looked comical, considering the state of her clothing. Even if Celene didn’t like the way Trevelyan looked, she didn’t say a word, greeting her with a smile.

“We are most happy that you managed to find time for us before this important battle,” she said, polite as ever.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Trevelyan stated, reciting one of the formulas Josephine taught her. Hopefully her voice didn’t sound that fake this time.

“Please accept our blessings for the upcoming battle. All Orlais stands behind you.”

Trevelyan blinked. “Oh, um…Thank you, Your Radiance. You are most kind.”

She stared at her own feet, uncertain what she was supposed to do in this type of situation. Josephine would surely know; Trevelyan cursed herself for never listening when the Ambassador wanted to teach her all that stuff about diplomacy.

Then she remembered the tales about knights her mother used to tell her when Trevelyan was little, and without any hesitation she fell down on one knee in front of the Empress. Perhaps this was the right way to show her gratitude. Knights in tales always kneeled in front of kings and queens.

Trevelyan bowed her head, but there was something missing. Hesitantly, she grasped Celene’s hand, hoping she won’t smear mud on her splendid dress. When the Empress didn’t protest, she pressed her lips to the delicate hand.

She heard the handmaidens gasp in unison. The Inquisitor stood up, releasing Celene’s hand.

“We hope that you… return to us,” the Empress said after a beat.

There was a faint blush on her face. But Trevelyan probably just imagined that.

She coughed awkwardly. “I should go.”

She bowed her head. It was probably the clumsiest goodbye in the diplomatic history of Thedas, and she was sure Josephine would scold her later. Providing they survive the battle with the Elder One, but who would worry about some darkspawn magister when the Inquisitor did something so disrespectful in front of the Empress of Orlais.

It took all her willpower not to run straight to her tent. Once she got there, she let out a long sigh.

Cassandra stared at her, red– faced. Trevelyan gave her a confused look.

“Well,” Varric said in an amused voice, “you certainly know how to woo a lady.”

“ _What_? I just wanted to thank her for the support. How else are you supposed to thank the Empress of Orlais? I couldn’t just say, Hey Celene, thanks for the chevaliers!”

“Of course.” There was something in the dwarf’s expression Trevelyan couldn’t quite understand.

She huffed in annoyance. There was no time for this type of nonsense; the Elder One wouldn’t wait for her.

“Let’s go,” she said, gripping her sword. “It’s time to end this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Trevelyan couldn’t tell how much time had passed since the celebration started. Skyhold was full of people, food and drinks as everyone celebrated the Inquisition’s victory. She was quite sure nothing can ruin her good mood anymore.

One week later she was proved wrong when yet another letter arrived from Orlais.

“Empress Celene is organising a ball,” Josephine said, holding the letter in her hands. “She wants to celebrate the Inquisiton’s triumph. You are to be her guest of honour.”

Trevelyan groaned, all her happiness gone. Celene would surely remind her about their last meeting, and how the Inquisitor made a fool of herself in front of everyone.

“Do I have to go..?” she asked in a weak voice already knowing the answer.

Josephine merely glanced at her. She had a very smug look on her face.

“I’m _not_ wearing a corset!”

Trevelyan knew her protest was futile yet she still had to try.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it was rude but Trevelyan simply couldn’t pretend she wants to be here. Her feet were sore, whole body ached because of the rib–crushing corset she had to wear. All around her people were enjoying the party. The Inquisitor, on the other hand, wanted nothing else but to hide from everyone, especially Celene and Briala. They seemed to watch her all the time, their eyes following her everywhere she went.

Eventually Trevelyan was so annoyed with everything she couldn’t stand it anymore. She went outside, desperate to hide somewhere in the royal garden. People were busy dancing and gossiping; who could possibly find her here?

“You don’t look so good, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan cursed in her thoughts. _Briala_ , the answer was Briala.

“I’m afraid I need to spend some time away from the crowd.”

The elf nodded. Trevelyan hoped she would leave her alone. Briala, however, had a different idea.

“Celene and I would like to speak with you in private. Come with me, please.”

With a heavy heart, Trevelyan followed Briala to a different part of the palace. Celene was waiting for them in a small room that looked like a study, with portraits on the walls and shelves full of books. She was sitting by a table, drinking tea from a porcelain cup. When the Inquisitor walked in, she gave her a smile.

“Sit down, please,” Briala said.

Once they all were seated by the table, Trevelyan wondered if the elf brought her here so she can be their source of amusement. There was something in their eyes she couldn’t quite decipher, as if the women made a secret agreement.

 “Would you like some tea, Inquisitor?” Celene asked.

Trevelyan nodded, too tired to argue. When the Empress poured hot tea in a cup, the Inquisitor couldn’t help but smile. How many people could say that the Empress of Orlais served them tea?

“How do you like the ball?” Briala asked. “You’re extremely popular among Orlesian nobles, I noticed. They seem rather… fascinated by your charm, Inquisitor.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Trevelyan admitted.

“Oh, but they do like you,” the elf insisted, something like mischief glistening in her eyes.

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation,” Celene said.

Trevelyan glanced at the Empress, noticing she no longer referred to herself as ‘we’. Was it because they were talking in private…?

“You are an extraordinary woman, Inquisitor. If we cooperate, the future of Thedas is in our hands.”

Trevelyan twisted her lips bitterly. All that talk about _power_ and _changing the fate of the world_ always made her head hurt.

“Politics, of course,” she scowled. “It may come as a surprise but I’m not really interested. You see, fighting is what I do. Political matters don’t interest me in the slightest.”

Celene and Briala exchanged a look. The elf bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh.

“Politics?” The Empress chuckled. Her hand grasped her mask. “My dear Inquisitor, what we have in mind is more pleasant and satisfying than mere politics.”

She carelessly tossed her mask on the floor. Trevelyan watched, transfixed, as she removed pins from her hair one by one, a wave of blond curls falling on her back.

She stood up and offered her hand to Trevelyan. The Inquisitor took a deep breath, accepted Celene’s hand and got up on her feet, feeling hot blush on her face.

Celene caressed her face while Briala’s skilled fingers helped unlace her corset, and Trevelyan finally understood what they had in mind.


	5. Isabela/Merrill II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Merrill & Isabela giving out stuff that Bela stole to the alienage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by rivaini-witch @tumblr  
> Be sure to check out her fics!  
> written for the International Day of Femslash; spoiler free

Isabela needed a drink. She glanced around, and seeing piles and piles of things on every possible surface, she let out a sigh. _This is going to take forever._

Sadly, Merrill didn’t have any liquor in her home. A pity but the pirate didn’t want to complain. There were other important matters that needed her attention. They’d go for a drink later, and for now she had to take a sip of water Merrill so generously offered, and get to work.

Elves in Kirkwall didn’t have much choice when picking a place to live. It was a miracle Merrill even found a new home in the alienage. Varric was most likely involved. Isabela should thank him for that as well as for keeping the elf safe by paying thugs to stay away from her. She should buy him something fancy, a hat perhaps, though she wasn’t sure if dwarves wear hats. Perhaps they should start. And something for Bianca as well. Isabela let out another sigh.

The pirate wanted to just dump everything in the middle of the Docks and let people decide if they want to keep anything or throw it in the sea. Merrill, however, managed to convince her that it would be better if they put it all in her tiny house to sort it out and pick things that elves in the alienage could find useful. What a noble idea. On one hand Isabela was proud because she was doing something _good_ for a change. Giving out stuff to people in need was something Chantry sisters did, not pirates.

On the other hand, most of that stuff was stolen. And she wasn’t sure if elves would appreciate getting things that belonged to someone else. Well, technically, Isabela just _borrowed_ all that. There was nothing bad in borrowing things, right? She just forgot to return them, and now she wanted to give them to some elves. What was wrong with that?

The problem was that half the stuff was useless. She never even realized how much garbage she accumulated ship over the years. Merrill’s tiny house was packed with all sorts of things, from fur coats, pots and pans, to a collection of silver spoons. And a parrot. Andraste’s ass, when did she get herself a _parrot_?

The bird sat on top of Merrill’s wardrobe, observing them with dark eyes. The elf thought it was funny. Then the parrot started saying obscenities in Antivan, and Isabela decided it was best if she took it to the Hanged Man as a gift for the owner. The place was full of weird things, then why not add an Antivan parrot that could entertain guests with an extensive knowledge of curse words?

Once the parrot was gone, and they could get back to work, Isabela started browsing through the stuff. If she could find things that were either completely broken or useless, and quickly get rid of them, then they would finish faster.

“Oh, no, wait!” Merrill said. “Don’t you think it’s a perfect gift for Hawke?”

Isabela stared at the torn trousers in her hands. “You think?”

“Yes, she has a whole collection!” Merrill beamed.

Somehow this didn’t surprise Isabela at all. She put the trousers in a box labelled _Hawke_. Only Maker knew what the Champion did with all that trash.

“What about this, then?” Isabela

Whatever Merrill found, she knew exactly who needed it. There were many elves in the alienage, Isabela found out, and Merrill somehow knew every single one of them. A dress for a young elven girl who sold flowers, and a cushion for her cat. A book of old Fereldan legends with colourful pictures for a lady who had three children.

Then there were guards patrolling the streets, some of them were kind, and Merrill wanted to find something for them as well. Merchants who occasionally visited this part of Kirkwall, and didn’t mind selling their goods to poor elves. Merrill needed to find something for them as well. She made sure to find something useful for her clan, even though she no longer lived with them.

She also picked things she wanted to give to all her friends. More garbage for Hawke; apparently she liked getting completely useless things. A toy for her mabari. A warm blanket and a hairbrush for Anders, because he looked like he needed them. A porcelain vase for Fenris; doubtful if he would appreciate it, but he should put something _pretty_ in that ghastly mansion.

Isabela helped as she could, though she felt Merrill didn’t need her help at all.

 “Is there anything you like, Kitten?” the pirate asked after Merrill decided to give a golden bracelet to Aveline. “Maybe now you’ll find something for yourself?”

“I should focus on others first,” she replied, browsing another book she found.

Isabela sighed. Of course Merrill thought about others. That was the exact opposite of what the pirate always did.

“Do you think Sebastian will like this? It’s a book of poetry, though it’s hard to tell if it’s good or not. But this poem is about arrows, I think. And he’s an archer, so…”

“Sure,” Isabela smiled. “Perhaps he’ll learn something new. He needs to open his mind to something else than the Maker’s words.”

Their work seemed endless, yet Merrill slowly organised the chaos around them. Isabela wasn’t sure how long they had been doing this. Looking at the melted candle she imagined it had to be late, surely after midnight. She yawned.

“You’re tired. You should go to bed.”

The pirate tried to protest but Merrill didn’t want to listen.

“You’ve done enough. Thank you for sharing all this stuff. Now go get some rest. Sleeping on this chair is really uncomfortable, I know it for a fact.”

Too tired to argue, Isabela left the elf, and walked to the tiny room Merrill called her bedroom. She collapsed on the bed, barely registering how small it was. _Maybe I should get her a new bed_ , she thought as she drifted off to sleep. _And pillows. Lots and lots of pillows._

The room had no windows, so when Isabela woke up she wasn’t sure what time it was. She walked to the other room, yawning. She found the elf where she left her, sitting on the chair among boxes. Merrill was sleeping, her lips slightly open. Isabela glanced around. The elf put an end to the mess, everything was now neatly organised in piles or boxes.

Her lips curled into a smile. She tiptoed to the elf, quietly so she wouldn’t wake her up. Merrill had to be exhausted. Sleeping like that, she looked quite endearing. For a longer moment Isabela simply watched her, so she could remember this moment forever.

Isabela leaned in, placing a kiss on Merrill’s cheek. The elf took a deep breath but didn’t wake up. Sleeping on that chair was uncomfortable, like the elf said. Carefully, Isabela took Merrill in her arms and carried her to the bedroom. After all that work she surely deserved to rest.


	6. fTrevelyan/Josephine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Josephine gets jealous of all the attention Trevelyan gets from women at the ball that she stakes a claim on Trevelyan in front of everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for http://fandomwhut.tumblr.com/  
> small spoilers for DAI

Listening to an Orlesian lady wearing a mask decorated with sapphires, Inquisitor Trevelayn smiled politely and nodded. The woman put her hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder so casually one could think this gesture didn’t mean anything. The Inquisitor didn’t seem to mind, or pretended she doesn’t care so she wouldn’t cause a diplomatic scandal. Despite her advisors’ attempts, Lady Inquisitor was still very much oblivious to the Grand Game people of Orlais liked to play so much.

Josephine observed all that from across the room, feeling something very close to _anger_ coil inside her.

Josephine wasn’t a jealous type. She was rational, and she understood the Inquisitor wasn’t exactly hers. Years ago Josephine learned that diplomacy and politics were complex, and the smallest gesture could ruin everything. It would be simply foolish, getting angry because Trevelyan had to deal with all that attention. Perhaps in a dream world, the Inquisitor could simply punch her way through every problem without having to attend some ball where every person could be involved in the plan to kill the Empress. But here and now, the Inquisitor had to talk, dance and pretend everything was magnificent, while in reality she was surrounded by nothing but fake smiles and lies.

The Inquisition arrived in the Winter Palace as guests. Everyone were looking at them while pretending they didn’t notice them at all. Everything about Trevelyan, from her heritage to her formal attire, was heavily criticized behind her back. Orlesians laughed at the Inquisition because there was no place for them in their Grand Game.

Josephine listened to all that, knowing it didn’t really matter. The Inquisitor was here to make sure the world wouldn’t crumble into chaos. It sounded dramatic, but Corpyheus had to be stopped. As she observed the gathering, listening to whispers and trading fake smiles, she couldn’t help but pity these people. They didn’t know what was at stake here. They most likely didn’t even want to think about anything else than their precious balls, expensive gowns and skilfully crafted intrigues, confident that the only thing that mattered was the Game. How little did they know.

The fact that their petty games didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things didn’t help Josephine at all. She thought it wouldn’t be so hard, seeing Trevelyan getting so much unwanted attention from pretty much everyone. They made fun of her behind her back, yet in some perverse way they also wanted to seduce her. Maybe Orlesian nobles thought it was funny. Besides, if one of them succeeded, they could later brag they seduced the Inquisitor. Josephine could barely stand it. Leliana tried to calm her down, but it wasn’t helping in the slightest.

The Ambassador reached into her pocked, and touched a small silver brooch. She wanted to give it to Trevelyan as a… gift, nothing more. It wasn’t that significant, just a small silver brooch shaped like a rose, a token of her friendship (of _love_ , but that was something Josephine was still afraid to admit).

She wanted to give it to the Inquisitor before they left for Orlais, when they were still in Skyhold. For some reason she couldn’t gather enough courage, as if paralyzed with some foolish, irrational fear of rejection. Her hands were shaking, thoughts were scattered, and Josephine didn’t know what to do.

So she took it with her to the Winter Palace, hoping that once everything’s taken care of, she could give her little gift to Trevelyan. It wouldn’t mean much, she thought. They never talked about their relationship – if there even was a relationship to talk about. But just the thought that Trevelyan might find her insignificant, unimportant… The thought made Josephine’s heart ache.

And now, seeing all these people surrounding Trevelyan, trying to charm and seduce her… Josephine’s fears changed into anger. _I won’t let you corrupt her_ , she thought, balling her hands into fists. _You can’t have her._

And even though she wouldn’t even think that the Inquisitor belonged to her, everything in Josephine rebelled against the suggestion that one of these people, just one, could take Trevelyan away from her.

All her life Josephine Montilyet saw herself more like a damsel who waited for her knight in a shining armour. She was a _proper lady_ , as authors usually described the heroines of their novels; a good, dignified woman who wanted nothing more than for her prince to come and save her.

Now she felt it was time to be a knight instead, and _fight_.

She couldn’t just make a public announcement or duel every person who looked at the Inquisitor in a wrong way. That wouldn’t be… diplomatic. They were in Orlais, which meant she had to be clever about it. The Game wasn’t for simple minds, after all. It had to be subtle but meaningful enough that everyone could understand the message.

Josephine was a proper lady, and also a knight, and when she thought about a perfect way to do it, her lips curled into a smile.

Holding the brooch in her hand, she navigated through the room, eyes fixed on the one person she cared about most. Trevelyan was surrounded by a circle of nobles, men and women all trying to woo her with their sweet yet empty words.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Josephine’s voice was loud enough to make them all stop talking and look at her.

She smiled at the ladies, it was one of her kindest smiles reserved for people she truly hated, then turned to Trevelyan. “My dear Inquisitor, I’m terribly sorry I interrupt.”

“Is something wrong?” the Inquisitor asked, concern clear in her voice. She looked worried, _truly_ worried, and Jospehine’s heart ached at how genuine Trevelyan’s emotions were. In a palace full of people wearing masks and playing roles, the Inquisitor was probably the only person who didn’t want to pretend she was someone else, who didn’t fake her emotions.

“I forgot to give you this,” Josephine said, pinning the brooch on the Inquisitor’s chest.

One of the women gasped, another whispered something to the man standing by her side. Soon everyone would talk about this little incident, Josephine was sure.

_Good. Let them talk._

“Oh, thank you, that’s… It looks very nice,” Trevelyan touched the brooch with her hand. “Thank you, Josephine – I mean, Lady Montilyet.”

Trevelyan’s eyes were honest. Josephine blushed, something squeezing her heart so hard she was sure it would break into little pieces.

“You are most welcome, my lady Inquisitor.”

Ambassador Montilyet knew how to win her battles, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant they were. She bowed her head, and turned around to walk away. She could feel Trevelyan’s eyes watching her, heard people whispering. That was another battle she won, she was sure.


	7. Florianne/fTrevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You were mine even before you knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [fandomwhut](http://fandomwhut.tumblr.com/)  
> spoilers for DAI; D/s undertones

“Can I speak with you? In private?”

Hearing the question Florianne acts surprised. “But of course,” she says with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Whatever you need, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan nods, hoping her voice sounds confident enough. _Hopefully she lets me talk before she thinks about stabbing me in the back_ , she muses, following Florianne outside.

They walk to the gardens, away from prying eyes. Though Trevelyan can’t shake the feeling there’s always someone watching her no matter where she goes. She tries not to judge, but there’s something _creepy_ about this place. She’d rather return to Skyhold or go on yet another expedition to the blighted Hinterlands. But she’s the Inquisitor which means she has to deal with every crisis, no matter how uncomfortable she feels.

They can barely hear the sounds from the palace, and finally Trevelyan can focus on something else than making sure she behaves as it’s expected from the Inquisitor. Florianne sits down on a bench. After a moment of consideration, Trevelyan sits down by her side. The Duchess smells like something sweet and tempting.

“My dear Inquisitor,” Florianne begins with a smile on her lips and her eyes ice cold. “As honoured I am that you want to speak with me, I believe you should spend more time with the Empress. Doesn’t she look radiant in that dress?”

“I don’t care that much about Celene,” Trevelyan says, more honest than she should be. “Or Orlais, in fact.”

“What a bold statement. If you said something like this publicly, you’d cause quite a scandal.”

The smile on Florianne’s lips tells Trevelyan that the Duchess would like to see that. She quite enjoys chaos, it seems, as long as she can observe it from a safe distance.

“I’m sure that would merely confirm what everyone here thinks of the Inquisition. That we’re nothing but a band of brutes.”

“And yet you decided to came here. Why is that, my dear Inquisitor?” Florianne narrows her eyes. “Because your advisors told you that you have to?”

“I’m here to stop you.”

Her voice is weak, and for some reason she feels powerless. Far from Skyhold, surrounded by people in masks, for one moment Trevelyan lets panic and fear creep into her thoughts. There are times when the weight on her shoulders is too heavy, nearly crushing her completely. _I’m not your saviour_ , she wants to say every time someone looks at her in awe. People claim she’s the Herald of Andraste, while in reality…

Every single day Trevelyan curses the mark on her hand. If she could give it to someone else, she would gladly do it.

“But first I need you to listen to me,” Trevelayn continues, ignoring Florianne’s mocking stare. “There’s a way to bring peace to Orlais without spilling more blood.”

“Both Celene and Gaspard are too stubborn to yield,” the Duchess says, sounding almost bored. “There won’t be peace in Orlais until one kills the other. And let’s not forget about Briala.”

“There’s another way. They can all rule together.”

Florianne scoffs. “Impossible.”

“Believe me, it can be done. I will _make_ them work together.”

“Now, now, Inquisitor, one could think you’re making threats,” the Duchess laughs. “And there I was thinking you’re simply enjoying the night.”

“As pleasant as it was dancing with you, Grand Duchess, I had other things to do. I didn’t spend all evening on gossiping and dancing. I’ve been quite busy trying to keep your country from falling apart.”

“By snooping around Celene’s bedchamber?”

Florianne’s voice sounds so calm, Trevelyan can’t help but stare at her in surprise. They were so careful and clever, even Leliana was impressed that the Inquisitor managed to discover such scandalous truths about the most powerful people in the Empire.

And yet Florianne noticed. Of course she did. It seems the Duchess somehow knows about everything that’s going on in the palace.

Trevelyan takes a breath, trying to ignore the blush on her face. “By doing what’s necessary.”

“I’m not exactly sure what’s the point of this conversation, my dear Inquisitor,” Florianne says after a beat, a smile never leaving her lips.

Trevelyan gathers her strength. It would be a pity, ending Florianne’s life. She wants to murder the Empress, but then again, Celene is not a saint. The Duchess is scheming and manipulative – just like everyone else in the Orlesian court.

The Inquisition could use someone like Florianne de Chalons. The question is, if she wants to even consider the offer.

“I have a proposition.”

“You said you’re here to stop me,” the Duchess reminds, her voice innocently sweet. “Changed your mind about killing me?”

“I never said anything about killing you, Florianne.”

Calling her by her name could be seen as an affront, and Trevelyan waits a moment, observing the Duchess, before continuing.

“Even if you get rid of Celene, your brother will be the one on the throne. You will always be in the shadows. You’ll always be second best. I have a better idea.”

The fact that Florianne is still listening is a good sign. She seem interested, though the Inquistitor isn’t sure if she likes the hungry gaze of Florianne’s cold eyes.

“I need…” Trevelyan clears her throat and quickly corrects herself. “The Inquisition needs an agent in Orlais. Not some nobody without any power or connections. We need the very best, someone who is close both to Gaspard and Celene. We need you, Grand Duchess.”

“You want me to be your spy?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I want you to be my _ally_. It’s power you desire, yes? You won’t get much power unless you’re the one who sits on the throne. And if the nobles find out about your plan to kill the Empress, you’ll hang. I’m offering you a third option.”

“You are full of surprises, Inquisitor.”

Florianne leans in, and at first Trevelyan thinks the woman wants to give her a kiss. She’s close, their noses nearly touching, but she still keeps a small distance between them. The smell of her perfume is sweet, making the Inquisitor slightly dizzy.

“Do you need me? Truly?” Florianne asks, her voice barely a whisper.

“As my ally, yes,” Trevelyan says in a careful tone. _Is this a trick?_ “We don’t have to be enemies.”

“I wonder, do you enjoy seeing people falling on their knees in front of the mighty Inquisitor?”

Trevelyan opens her lips, her mind empty. _What kind of question is that?_

“If you’re asking if I like having all this power, then… No, I’d rather see someone else leading the Inquisition. But I’ll do what I must to protect Thedas.”

Even if she sounds pathetic (she surely feels that way), Florianne doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, the woman enjoys the situation a little bit too much.

“If you truly need me, then… You need to do better than this. Kneel before me, Inquisitor, just like everyone else kneels before you.”

Rage burns bright in her heart but then slowly disappears, as Trevelyan realises that maybe… Maybe she enjoys having someone else in control.

The marble floor is cold but it matters little because her face feels so hot Trevelyan is almost sure her head is on fire. She looks up to see Florianne glancing at her with her eyes narrowed.

“Say _please_ , Inquisitor. Surely, you can do better if you _really_ need me.”

Trevelayn huffs in annoyance. “Will you join me now, Florianne? _Please_?”

“Wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“Is this some fantasy of yours? Seeing me like this?” she lets a hint of anger slip in her voice, perhaps to mask her embarrassment and some strange, hard to define feeling that coils inside her. Why is it so easy to _obey_?

“Even powerful figures such as yourself have to make sacrifices. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining.”

“You planned all this, right? Somehow you knew that I’d – ”

“Hush,” Florianne whispers. Her hand feels cold on Trevelyan’s face. “When the ball ends, you’ll come to my chamber. You’re a clever girl, I’m sure you’ll find it.”

Trevelyan scoffs, her mind telling her how angry she should be. But she’s not. What she feels is far from anger, though it’s difficult to understand yet, making her utterly confused.

“You can’t just… I’m not yours!” She wants to protest but stops, her voice failing.

This time the smile on Florianne is genuine, almost kind. “My dear Inquisitor. You were mine even before you knew.”


	8. Calpernia/Samson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Calpernia/Samson + praise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wrote this last year as a Kink Meme fill, only now realising I never posted this anywhere else.  
> The full prompt was: Samson gets kinda drunk, just enough to get more talkative than usually, and he starts complimenting Calpernia. She obviously doesn't believe him, no one ever praised her, but she secretly likes it. What he tells her is up to A!A. No meaningful squicks, just make it consensual please.  
> Not a ‘tumblr prompt’ per se, but I want to include it here because a) it’s a oneshot not connected to other things (unless you really want to?), b) the tag is dead, and c) it’s a way of telling those two people who are interested in fics I write that this profile isn’t dead. I’m going to post more new content eventually once I’m not so busy with work.   
> Anyway. Enjoy.

_In vino veritas_

* * *

 

When Samson was one step away from getting drunk but he was still sober enough to speak in full sentences, he always got bolder and surprisingly talkative. Which was an interesting change, Calpernia thought, because he was usually so silent it was difficult to decipher what he was really thinking. After a couple of drinks, he wouldn’t stop talking, though the problem was that words coming from his mouth were nothing but nonsense.

“Calpernia, please, Calpernia...” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her skin as he placed urgent kisses on her neck, hands tugging at the fabric of her robe.

It was slightly annoying, listening to his mumbling all the time when he began undressing her, so clumsily she wanted to push him away and do it herself.

“Calpernia, please, let me...” he repeated, his lips moving to her collarbone.

“Yes, Samson, I know, so how about you hurry up,” she huffed and rolled her eyes as he once again pulled helplessly at her robe.

It was unnerving, his sudden clumsiness. He was a trained soldier, fighting with so much precision yet now he was completely useless.

She nearly awarded him with a slow clap when he managed to unclasp her clothes at last, exposing her chest. Feeling his lips and hands on her breasts, Calpernia inhaled sharply, registering a familiar sensation coiling in her abdomen.

But he was taking so long..!

“Calpernia...” Samson breathed and part of her wanted to forbid him saying her name ever again, so he would focus on doing instead of talking.

“You are beautiful.”

She blinked in confusion, then glared at him, lips pressed and brows drawn together. _Now_ he was telling her that, of course. He was drunk enough to praise every pair of tits he saw.

“So beautiful.”

She felt her face blush despite the anger rising up within her, and cursed in Tevene. He was only saying that because she was sleeping with him. But deep down, Calpernia wanted to feel vain. At least once in her life she could feel desired.

Samson moved down, impatiently grabbing her robe and throwing it carelessly on the floor, finally achieving his goal of undressing her completely. He looked quite proud, she had to resist the urge to laugh. Thank the Maker she chose a simple robe for today, it would take him ages to take off her regular clothing.

“So pretty.”

Feeling his lips on her hip, she let out a sigh. If she could close her eyes and pretend he really did mean that...

“You have so many freckles... everywhere.”

Now that was something she didn't expect to hear tonight. Calpernia propped herself up on her elbows and gave him an annoyed look. She wasn't particularly fond of her appearance, though she knew it shouldn't matter. She didn't want to hear him saying all these foolish things about her. Of course she knew she had freckles everywhere, she was far from an ideal beauty with alabaster skin.

“So many freckles...” he repeated, words vibrating through her flesh.

_And scars_ , she wanted to angrily remind him. Scars on her arms, legs and on her back. Marking her once and forever. Of course she could pretend but what was the point, she couldn't change who she was.

_Don't act like it doesn't matter!_ she nearly spat, refusing to believe that for him it didn't.

For a moment she considered grabbing him by his hair to push his face where she wanted it the most, so he would stop talking. Instead she let him take his time as his mouth trailed up the inside of her thigh.

Feeling he stopped touching her, she let out a rather disappointed gasp. Apparently Samson remembered he was still fully clothed, so he fumbled with his shirt for a while, and tossed it on the floor. Calpernia saw it landed right on her robe. Her gaze returned to Samson who moved closer and leaned in, his body radiating so much warmth it was nearly unbearable.

“Calpernia,” he said, lips brushing her jaw, nose poking her cheek. He seemed fascinated with her name. “I want you to...”

He moved his hips, she could feel his cock pressing hard through his breeches against her skin.

“I want you on top. Let me look at you. I want to look at you.”

After this declaration, he placed one more sloppy kiss on her jaw and rolled on his back. Please, I'm asking you nicely, his heavy lidded eyes said. She _tsked_ , then decided it was probably safer if he wasn't hovering over her, threatening to collapse on top of her any second. Being crushed by him was not how she wanted to end this evening.

With a sigh of defeat, Calpernia sat up. Why was everything so complicated and clumsy and annoying all of the sudden? She wanted to howl in frustration.

Her thoughts scattered when Samson lifted one hand and drew it across her cheek. Blushing furiously, she froze while he idly caressed her face, making every inch of her shiver.

“You don't believe me? You are... spectacular.”

Calpernia closed her eyes, counted to five in her head. Then she grabbed his wrist and pinned his hand to the bed so he would stop touching her face in the way that made her... mad, so mad she wanted to set him on fire, and punch him, and do so many other things that she never even considered doing. She was sure she should not think about them now, but it was too late, and that small, vain part of her mind wanted to hear more.

“Next time tell me you plan on getting drunk,” she hissed. “I'll make sure you stay away from me so I don't have to listen to all this nonsense you're saying!”

“But why don't you believe me?” he insisted, caressing her leg with his free hand like he couldn't stop himself from constantly touching her, wanting to feel her warmth under his palms.

_Because it's easier to accept your drunken mumbling means nothing_. Calpernia shook her head. She didn't want to have this conversation. She accepted that she wanted this, whatever this was. Now he was complicating things that should be easy, that should mean nothing.

She angrily pushed his hand away and straddled his hips. Maybe this would finally make him shut up.

Samson looked up, smile ghosting over his lips. “Don't you know how much I adore you?”

Something inside her shattered. He sounded so sincere. Her hands trembled slightly, part of her wished she never heard him saying that.

“Calpernia, I – ”

“You said enough already,” she interrupted him, eyes fixed on his chest, rising and falling as Samson breathed, calm, while she was fighting with a storm in her head.

Calpernia took a deep breath, regaining at least a bit of her composure.

“Not one more word.”

He obeyed without question, perfectly silent when she unlaced his breeches, impatient, feeling him shudder when she wrapped her hand around his cock. He was inside of her in one slow, slick thrust, and her eyes fluttered shut. She had to hold still for a longer while, revelling in the feeling of him inside her in that _oh_ – _so_ – _familiar_ way.

When she opened her eyes again, Samson was marvelling at her with his eyes dark with want, and she couldn't help but wonder if what he said was true. His hands settled on her waist, waiting, surprising her with his sudden patience.

With a long, shuddery breath, she bucked her hips once, just to check if – _yes, that's it_ , she gasped – and began to move, something coiling tight inside of her just waiting for release.

She moved her hips and he responded in kind, thrusting into her, matching her rhythm. She rocked atop of him slowly at first, gradually speeding up, the friction stoking a fire within her. She placed her hands on his chest, looking down at him, feeling the strength in his body as he thrust up to meet her.

His words, foolish, foolish words, echoed in her mind no matter how hard Calpernia tried to ignore and forget them. Her fingernails digging into his skin, she bit her lip just to feel something different than the overwhelming pleasure that was suddenly too much, _too much_ , so much her heart threatened to burst.

She came with a shudder and a bitten–back whimper, and he soon followed, breaking the silence with a long groan.

It was time for her to get up, pick up her clothes and pretend it never happened, just like every other time. But her limbs felt too heavy, he whole body unable to move, even though Calpernia wished to disappear before he could tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

“Stay. For a little while,” Samson said hoarsely, reaching up to touch her face. She didn’t stop him this time.

She tried to repress all these unwise thoughts as best as she could. But there was something undeniably comforting in knowing there was someone who wanted her so much.


	9. Calpernia/Samson II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: first kiss (Another Kiss Meme from tumblr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *hello darkness my old friend playing faintly in the background as I write this*  
> I got this prompt from my good pal [ADaughterOfColdharbour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ADaughterOfColdharbour/)  
> This is kind of like a prequel to Arsonist’s Lullabye? Also I just want to mention that it’s been two years since Dragon Age Inquisition was released. I’d like to personally thank Bioware for throwing me into the Fanon Hell™.  
> Posted also on [my tumblr](http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/153488730623/aight-first-we-all-know-where-this-is-going)

_Don’t play with fire unless you want to get burned_.

Samson can’t quite remember who told him that, though he remembers the sound of their voice, and the way they looked at him with so much intensity as if trying to drill a hole in his soul.

Exactly like Calpernia is looking at him right now. With a wave of her hand the flames in the fireplace grow stronger. She conjures magic so effortlessly it seems almost easy.

There's always someone around, guarding her as if she needed protection (she doesn't, obviously; she can take care of herself just fine). The very thought of what could happen if one of her Venatori saw them now is so hilarious Samson can't hide a smile that appears on his lips. But then he sees a hint of irritation in Calpernia's eyes, and he can sense she's _this close_ to slapping him, so he makes the smile disappear from his face.

His fingers trail the skin of her shoulders as Samson leans down, waiting for Calpernia to push him away. She doesn’t; for some reason he can’t quite decide if it’s a good thing.

No sound escapes from her lips when he grips her shoulders a bit too hard, his fingers pressed deeper into her skin. Something stirs in his mind, that part of him that’s red and twisted. For one devious moment it whispers about squeezing her neck just hard enough so she would pose no threat anymore, so her flames would never burn him.

But he won't do it. He can’t.

He leans in but she turns her head so his lips brush her jaw instead. She can't make herself kiss him, at the same time she can’t tell him _no_ , like she couldn’t bring herself to push him away.

Samson lets out a huff of irritation. She could be teasing him on purpose, though it seems unlikely. He can pretend he doesn't see how she flinches every time he gets close. There's something in her eyes (he wants to think it’s simply anger, even though it’s most likely disgust) telling him it would be better if he stayed away from her.

It's dark enough so she could pretend he's someone else – but this doesn’t seem a problem here. She seems equally intrigued and disinterested, though Samson is not even sure how it’s possible. There’s this flush on her face, her eyes are glistening with something very close to _want_ , and yet...

She won't hold him as if a simple embrace was out of question. Her hands can only pull his hair, nails scratching skin. _Maybe it's a Tevinter thing_ , he muses idly as his lips move to her neck. She pulls his hair just to remind him he’s not allowed to do as he pleases. But he knows that, of course.

His hands slide down her arms, thin but quite muscular (for a mage, at least), and settle on her waist. Touching her feels _good_ , so pleasant it's waking up a craving inside him. He hasn't thought about it for some time, especially after taking red lyrium that dulls so many emotions.

The bad thing is that seeing how both of them are merely dancing around the topic, this isn't going anywhere tonight. Which is a shame.

But he can try. He's a patient man.

Her fingers are still tangled in his hair, he can feel her pulling harder when his hands move to her back and travel up, touching every scar and imperfection. Other than that, Calpernia doesn't react, standing perfectly still, like a statue. Is it because she’s so distant, or perhaps she’s _scared_ – it’s difficult to tell. Everything always seems so difficult about her.

She grows more irritated with every passing moment, just like the flames behind them get stronger. Perhaps she’s having second thoughts, wondering if she should really allow him all this. Maybe she’s gathering her powers to resolve her dilemma by burning him alive.

So he kisses her before she decides, and his lips crush against hers so she can’t catch a breath. Caught by surprise, she can’t turn her head away, not this time. Reluctant at first, she finally stops pulling on his hair, and gives in.

All that noise, that howling, it’s always so close to him he can nearly see the red creature trashing inside him, the thing that wants to tear him apart. And it's so loud that in comparison everything else is barely a whisper. Now, however, there's nothing but silence. It’s so confusing he nearly misses those maddening sounds.

“Enough!”

Calpernia's voice is strong and clear, echoing in the silence of his mind. Her hands push him away, nails scraping his skin. It's like a punch in the gut, this sudden disconnection.

 He doesn't fail to notice the flush spreading out over Calpernia’s face. But more importantly she seems _displeased_. Perhaps she truly doesn’t want him here.

Or perhaps she does it all to check if he stops when she commands.

Samson bows his head to hide a smile. Calpernia may not know it yet, but she will soon learn that he follows orders well. Especially when they come from her.


	10. Isabela/Merrill III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘I don’t have the words right now so here’s a kiss’ (Another Kiss Meme from tumblr) + Merribela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [ADaughterOfColdharbour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ADaughterOfColdharbour/)  
> Posted also on [my tumblr](http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/153486328803/im-greedy-leave-me-alone-merrill-x-isabela-14)

No matter how loud a tavern gets, she can always hear when someone calls out her name. Years of practice, one could say.

“Isabela!”

It’s Merrill; the pirate could recognise that voice everywhere. But as she looks up she discovers it’s not exactly the elf she knows. Because Merrill, instead of her usual robes, is wearing a _dress_.

At times Isabela wonders why their clothing options seem to be so limited while Hawke can afford living in a fancy mansion in Hightown. It’s like they all have only one outfit (though Isabela is fairly sure it’s true about Anders). That’s why seeing Merrill now, in something so simple yet beautiful is quite a shock.

The elf waves at Isabela again, and before the pirate can blink Merrill is standing right by her side, all pretty and smiling. Her dress is white, the colour makes her look like some angelic creature, with tiny green leaves embroidered on the front. It’s so different that what she usually wears, and so contrasting with the dingy interior of the Hanged Man, Isabela can’t help but stare.

“I’ve got a dress!” Merrill says in a cheerful tone without any introductions. “From Arya, you know Arya, right? You met her the other day, I think? She comes to the Alienage to sell fabrics. And she gave me this dress! How nice of her. It looks so lovely. It’s kind of _cute_ , I think.”

_It is_ , Isabela wants to say but can’t. She could swear there’s something stuck in her throat. She opens her lips and inhales yet still her body refuses to work properly. She stares at the elf, her thoughts jumbled.

“But I’m afraid I can’t wear it,” Merrill continues, oblivious, staring at her own feet. “Why is Kirkwall always so _dirty_? Or maybe it’s because I live in the Alienage…. That place isn’t very clean. Do you think I should ask Aveline if one or two of her guards could come and help the elves keep the Alienage clean? I could ask Hawke, but it’s like she only makes more mess everywhere she goes…”

Unable to speak, feeling her face burning, Isabela stands up. Merrill doesn’t seem to notice, as she continues talking.

“I can’t wear this pretty dress around Kirkwall. What if Anders asks us to go the sewers again? I don’t want this dress to smell like the sewers… But I forgot to ask you,” she finally looks at the pirate. “Do you like it?”

One quick step and Isabela is close to the elf, close enough so she can take Merrill’s hand. Only then the elf stops speaking and stares at Isabela with her big green eyes.

_One day I’ll get you every dress you want_ , the pirate thinks as she leans in. _The prettiest dresses you can imagine, and you will wear them for me. If I’m lucky._

Something like a gasp escapes from Merrill’s lips seconds before Isabela pulls her close for a kiss. Someone whistles, another person yells something (most likely obscene), but it doesn’t matter at all, because Merrill is soft, gentle and sweet, she’s everything Isabela wishes she could be.

„You know I like the sound of my own voice,” Isabela says, caressing Merrill’s face. “But for once I don’t know what to say.”

The elf’s eyes get even bigger as she gives the pirate a surprised look, gasping a silent _Oh?_.

“And kissing you is always a good option,” Isabela adds.

Merrill laughs, then looks away, flustered.

“Do I _like_ it? Oh, Kitten, I love it.”


	11. fAdaar/Josephine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the defeat of the Dread Wolf and the crashing down of his plans. / femAdaar x Josephine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Bighead98  
> TW: character death

A man she once called her friend kneels before her, his head bowed as his eyes gaze at her feet. Both his will and his power are broken, though moments ago her soldiers trembled in fear of his terrifying form. Blood drips from the open wound on his cheek, from his broken nose. Red drops stain his splendid armour that once glistened in the sun as if he was a king.

Not a king but a _god_ , or so some claim. The Inquisitor doesn’t know this god; she once knew a man, a _friend_ but now she’s not sure if they really were friends.

_I trusted you_ , Herah Adaar thinks. She can’t speak anymore, words taste like ash on her tongue.

She can barely look at him, not after so many died because of his mad plan. Not after he claimed to be her dear friend, and she was naïve enough to believe him.

“Finish what you started, Inquisitor,” Solas says, his voice barely a whisper.

Her hand holding a dagger shakes. The wound on her temple stings, countless bruises and cuts hurt. She can barely stand straight, her whole body aches, and she fears that she will collapse any second. But she won’t; she can’t give up, not now when they finally won.

Her soldiers, a laughably small fraction of the ones who survived until now, stand silently behind her. They wouldn’t dare to move or interrupt her in this moment, the moment of victory. It’s supposed to be their triumph, so why it feels like they lost?

_It has to be me_. Herah takes a deep breath. She grips the handle of her dagger, feeling her strength slowly return. _I am the Inquistor._

The arm she lost hurts somehow, pain pulsating in waves. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she feels the Mark burning bright on her left hand.

Solas lifts up his head and looks at her with so much sadness in his eyes she nearly believes he truly regrets his actions.

He doesn’t, this is merely an act, like everything else. Like their friendship.

_What do you see when you look at me?_ She wonders, taking a step forward. She’s far from the image of the mighty Inquisitor, her black hair dirty just like her face, clothes torn and splattered with blood.

_What does a god see when he looks at others?_

The tip of her dagger touches his neck. Solas doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move or speak. He doesn’t react at all, not even when she presses it down and drops of blood appear on his skin.

Herah stills her trembling hand. She has to remember what he’s done, how many lives perished because of his plans and scheming, what he unleashed when he wanted to tear down the Veil.

How he lied to her since the moment they met years ago that faithful day.

Solas looks up at her, a smile brushes his thin lips.

“Goodbye, my friend.”                  

Their eyes meet, and there is nothing but peace in his. Herah screams, though it sounds more like a growl of some rabid animal, all her despair and fury focused in her voice. She slices his throat open, blood splatters on her clothes, on the grass beneath their feet. She blinks back tears that gather in her eyes and strikes again before he falls face down. His body trembles once, twice, and Adaar takes a step back to witness the end of a god.

The dagger falls down from her hand, then her knees touch the ground as what remained of her strength leaves her. She hears her soldiers cheer, or scream, or cry, she doesn’t know. The sound is distorted as if something was covering her ears, but it’s loud, echoing in her blissfully empty mind.

The Inquisitor looks up; the sky is bright, indifferent to what’s happening below. Even though Herah closes her eyes shut the tears won’t stop, and her whole body shakes as she cries for what was lost.

 

* * *

 

She barely remembers going back to Skyhold. People are cheering and celebrating all around her, yet Adaar finds it difficult to join them. Something stirs impatiently in her soul. She’d like to hide somewhere and sleep for at least a hundred years. She can’t, obviously. The Inquisitor must be present during the celebrations.

Only when she sees the one person dear to her heart she can finally smile, for the first time since the downfall of a man who claimed to be a god.

Josephine wraps her arms around her, pulls her close in a warm embrace. The ambassador is soft, smells like roses, and most importantly she’s alive and safe.

“I missed you,” she says, and Adaar’s heart sings because there’s nothing but honesty and love in Josephine’s words.

“Send a message to Leliana at once,” Herah whispers into Josephine’s hair. It’s hard to let go; she wishes she could stay like this forever. “She may be the Divine, but she’s the spymaster first and foremost. Besides, she likes to be well–informed.”

“You need to rest,” Josephine insists, placing a kiss on Adaar’s cheek. “I’ll take care of everything, but you have to go to bed. Get some rest, my love.”

“In a moment,” Herah says.

Her whole body seems to weigh a tone. Her fingers are tangled in Josephine’s locks, and she wishes she had both hands to hold her lover. She wishes so many things lately, with every need feeling more pathetic.

“I want to hold you for a little bit longer.” The Inquisitor lets out a sigh and closes her eyes, the warmth of the woman who loves her making her believe there’s still hope left in this world.


	12. Isabela/Josephine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: laughing kiss (another kiss meme on tumblr) + Josie/Isabela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [venatohru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru)  
> originally posted [my tumblr](http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/post/153996612998/might-i-request-a-laughing-kiss-for-josie-and)

Josephine Montilyet liked to keep track of people who arrived at Skyhold. She didn’t know about everything that was happening, that was Leliana’s job, but she knew when someone important visited the Inquisition. She talked to their allies, greeted guests, and wrote countless letters to those dignitaries that couldn’t speak to the Inquisitor in person.

Everyone knew the Ambassador, while Josephine could always notice when someone new arrived. And the moment she heard that Hawke’s friend decided to visit Skyhold, Josephine was certain that someone would surely be interesting.

Hawke was someone who attracted all kinds of people. From what Varric had told her, it seemed like back in Kirkwall the Champion formed some kind of a merry band of misfits. Eager to meet the person, Josephine left her paperwork and rushed to the main hall where the Inquisitor was supposed to greet the Champion’s friend.

The Inquisitor was talking to a tall woman in a long blue coat and a hat on her head. From where she was standing, Josephine couldn’t see her face, so she walked closer, her curiosity making her bold.

 “Josephine, good to see you,” the Inquisitor smiled at her. “Come, meet our latest ally and soon, I hope, a friend of the Inquisition.”

The woman turned her head, and Josephine could finally see her face. And what a sight she was.

She was a stunning woman with long black hair. She wore golden jewellery that glistened in the light, and had warm, honey eyes that narrowed when she glanced at Josephine.

„Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas,” she said in a charming voice, her lips curling into a smile, her eyes sparkling with interest.

And then she kissed Josephine’s hand. The Ambassador felt a hot blush on her face, and gasped in surprise. It wasn’t about Isabela kissing her hand, it was about… well, everything that this woman represented. Besides, this kind of scenario could only happen in some romance novel; in real life people were more reserved. A woman kissing other woman’s hand when they were barely even introduced? How scandalous.

It seemed Isabela didn’t care that much about diplomacy. She was… Well, she was certainly _something_.

Her roguish smile, that glimmer of wickedness in her honey eyes, the smell of sea and adventure. Oh how _silly_ it sounded, but deep down Josephine knew it was all true, that the woman standing in front of her was someone extraordinary.

“Pleased to meet you,” she finally managed to say.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Isabela purred with a satisfied grin on her lips.

“Would you look at that,” the Inquisitor said, though for some reason Josephine could barely hear the words. “Isabela, you made my dear ambassador blush!”

Josephine gasped, then blinked, feeling hot blush on her face. Was she really blushing so much?

Isabela didn’t seem to care in the slightest. “I’m an expert in making other people blush.” She grinned.  “Just ask Varric, he’ll tell you _everything_.”

Josephine gave the Inquisitor a disapproving look. It seemed all those diplomacy lessons were for nothing.

“I’m merely surprised by the way you greeted me,” she pointed out, trying to sound professional. “Usually a handshake is enough.”

“A handshake is _boring_ ,” Isabela laughed. “Kissing one’s hand isn’t the best way of greeting a lovely lady such as yourself, though.”

“Oh?” Josephine felt her blush got even worse.

“Would you like me to show you what’s the best way of greeting a beautiful woman? But only if you let me.”

Josephine was a sensible person. All her rational thoughts, however, disappeared rather quickly, as she found Isabela’s smile utterly distracting.

She nodded, feeling like she completely lost her mind. “Yes, I’d like to know.”

Isabela laughed, her voice echoing between the stone walls of Skyhold. Before Josephine could register what was happening, the pirate wrapped her arm around her waist to pull her close for a kiss. She tasted like adventure, though the second Josephine thought about it she felt foolish. But it mattered little, all her rational thoughts gone, replaced by Isabela’s soft touch.

She heard the Inquisitor’s gasp in shock, then laugh. And there were other people present in the hall, most of them surely saw what happened. To her own surprise Josephine didn’t care that much about it as she should.

“Hope to see you again, my dear lady Josephine,” Isabela whispered, still holding the ambassador close; the smile never left her lips. “The sooner the better.”

 


End file.
